


Quiet Thunder

by Lumieres



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fluff, Gore, M/M, Murder cases, blind!Will, slow romancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumieres/pseuds/Lumieres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case goes terribly wrong, Will Graham is blind. </p><p>---</p><p>"You'll die the day the blind man sees you," Bedelia whispered to Hannibal. Instead of replying, Hannibal's eyes twinkled. He was waiting for the day to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

That day, the world smelt of oranges and citrus. He had come to associate days with smells now. It was the easiest way to separate the days into boxes, into their own memories within the bone arena of his mind. Otherwise every day would blur into one and the confusion would stick to him like oil. 

He slid his hand along the edge of the car until he felt the familiar fabric brush against his skin, signalling that he neared the handle. Tugging at the handle, the door opened with a loud clunk and he pushed at it slowly, his leg sliding out to hit the gravel.

The car’s engine spat as the ignition cut, the car felt like it was sinking to the ground as it stopped moving. He fumbled for his cane along the side of the seat, exactly where he had put it every time he hitched a ride with Alana. The metal was light in his hands but without it, he always felt like he was missing a part of himself. 

_(But he was always missing a part of himself)_

“You dropped this,” Alana’s voice breezed through the air. Her voice was always soft when she spoke to him and he always interpreted the way that it curved at the edges as her friendliness. He held out his hand, waiting for her to drop whatever she held in his hands. The soft fabric was a little wet, dappled with water around the edges. His fingers traced the edge of the object before realising that it was his scarf. Without paying any further attention to Alana, he put it on, making sure that it was snug around his neck.

“It’s —" she started.

He stepped away from her and began walking, tapping his cane on the floor rhythmically in front of him.

“Will let me fix your scarf,” Alana said. Biting back a response, he stopped, tensing when she moved closer. As soon as her heel hit the concrete a step behind her, he let out a breath he forgot he was holding. He twisted the scarf slightly to the left, moving the tag that scratched at the back of his neck further down.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she said. It was the first time he had left the house since he had gone blind, it was the first time he had entered civilisation. And the first place Alana had suggested was a coffee shop. Will Graham had not completely been fond of the idea but he was not going to tell her that it was a terrible plan either. She had been one of the few people who were consistently helping him, making sure that he recovered just as quickly. The others simply let him go, too afraid that they would gain more responsibility for him than they already wanted.

Will tried to bite back another response, something more snarky. “You suggested it.”

“I’m just checking. We can leave whenever you want to,” she said, her voice soothing.

_(He didn't want to go)_

“Yeah, okay.” He sighed, trying his best to keep his breath even as he moved closer to the cacophony of sound. When they stepped in, the thick fog of sound haunted him. He was unable to distinguish between the voices around him, all merging into one. There were sharp staccato laughs that hit his ears at intervals, making him flinch in visible pain. This was not where he was supposed to be. He wanted to leave.

He turned to face Alana, trying to tell her that this was not a good idea. That they should just go home. But when he tried calling out for her name, she did not respond. He heard her voice, echoing like wind chimes as she talked to someone. His voice was low, his accent a little foreign. Will tried to figure out if he knew the man but after searching through his memory, he decided that they had never met.

Coughing lightly into his palm, he declared his presence. Suddenly, it was like he was visible again.

“Ah!” Alana’s voice was the first one to acknowledge him. “Sorry, Hannibal, this is Will. Will Graham.”

“Hm,” the man named Hannibal said, though it was a thoughtful sound like he was analysing Will.

_(Everyone analysed him, though)_

“I’m Hannibal Lecter.”

“He held out his hand,” Alana laughed and Will quickly stuck his hand out, trying to guess where Hannibal’s body was positioned. “He was my mentor, another psychiatrist.”

The man’s palm was warm against his own, free of sweat and strangely calloused for a psychiatrist in some areas.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Hannibal said. Will could hear the smile crackle against the man’s lips and he mumbled something about it being nice to see him as well.

“I’m sorry, this is probably the first time Will has been in contact with so many people after his — “ Alana’s voice trailed off but then as quickly as she stopped, she started again. “I think we should probably leave —"

“I know the owners,” Hannibal interjected. “I’m sure that they can set up a table for us in the back.”

Will clicked his tongue in annoyance, trying to determine whether or not this was a good idea. He caught a whiff of the man as he walked past, this so called _psychiatrist_. He smelt of wood and ashes, and there was a faint smell of something else that he could not put his hand on. It nagged at him like a splinter caught in his finger. Not painful but annoying.

Alana was the first one to start moving, grabbing Will’s arm gently. They moved through the crowd and people shuffled out of the way. He found that the longer they walked, less people were talking around him. It was strangely comforting, drifting back into some sort of peacefulness. It was nothing like his home but it was _something_.

They took a seat and ordered a couple of coffees. Will’s mind wandered, as he thought whether or not Alana purposely met up with Hannibal just for this moment. She knew that he was broken — they all were — but he refused treatment. If this was her ploy to —

“May I say, Will,” Hannibal said, “That I am terribly sorry for your loss.”  

“Are you?” Will muttered, reluctantly pulling out from his thoughts. Alana’s foot hit his and he took the hint, holding back a groan. He moved his hand to massage his leg, trying his best to hide what he thought was a scowl at Alana.

He hated how everyone brought up his new handicap and apologised for it, like it was  _their_ fault. 

_(It wasn't)_

_(It was his own)_

“Yes, the story was all over the news,” Hannibal replied. “I am glad that you have Alana helping you with your recovery.”

“Yes, she’s been very helpful,” Will said, though his words were manufactured, they no longer felt like his. He was slipping behind his mask, unsure whether or not he could trust Hannibal. "Very kind."

“Will,” Alana cut through. “Really? Are you doing this now?”

“Doing what?” Will tried to act innocent, though he had already formulated his opinion on Doctor Lecter. He did not trust the man, not one bit. Even if he had been Alana’s mentor, he was — something else. There was a certain aura that coated the psychiatrist that made Will’s stomach turn.

“It’s fine, Doctor Bloom,” Hannibal said. Another body was in the room and Will tensed. When they left, Alana’s hand was on his, leading him to the cup of coffee. With shaky hands he raised the glass to his mouth, waiting for the warm liquid to hit his lip.

“Will, you have never talked to me about what happened, so I thought maybe Hannibal could help you,” she said between sips. “What do you think?”

“I don’t want to talk to a psychiatrist,” Will hissed, slamming his coffee cup against the table. “No doctors Alana.”

“It does not have to be a strictly doctor-psychiatrist relationship,” Hannibal said, his voice still calm and as thick as honey. “Just conversations.”

Will relented, knowing that if he rejected Doctor Lecter now, Alana would continuously harass him until he said yes. That was what happened when she asked him whether or not he wanted to go to a café. He liked it back at home, with his dogs. They were safe, safer than people.

People were dangerous. That was how he lost his sight, that was how he got his wounds. They were always angry, out to murder people, and it made Will Graham _tired_. That was the only way he could explain it. He could not pinpoint his emotions exactly because his empathetic nature made everything blur into one, each sensation overlapping over one another until he was unsure where Will Graham began.

“Okay.”

Alana’s surprised gasp was audible and if Will could see, he was sure that she was smiling. His memory of her, with her read lipstick and her soft, brown eyes was always at the forefront of his mind.

“How about tomorrow?” Hannibal asked. “We can start slow at my office.”

Will desperately wanted to leave but he knew with so many people that it would be hard for him. He would probably trip over a table or someone would have moved a chair. Constants were his solace. For now, if they could avoid places where things were changing all the time, he would be a little less stressed. Rolling his shoulders back, he pushed the sunglasses closer to his face and tapped his cane against the floor.

“I guess it’s an appointment, Doctor Lecter.”  


	2. Chapter 2

Save for the moon that lit the pathway, the night was dark. Will Graham trudged through the snow, his hands firmly grasping the gun, eyeing the shadows. The silhouettes were locked in an intricate dance around him and with every step he took, his eyes grew wider and his movements became more erratic. Jack Crawford had told him to wait for backup, desperately _begged_ for him to wait, but Will took no chances. He saw the lead and he wanted to take it before it disappeared.  

He was tracking someone or even _something_. The way this killer moved was unlike anything he had seen before and the pain of slipping into the killer’s thoughts grew with every second that passed. His heart beat sporadically in his chest but his hand was steady. He was trained to do this — he was _not_ going to mess this one up.

A couple of owls hooted curiously, watching him along the bare branches. The trees shivered as a cool breeze sauntered through. He spun to his left when he heard a branch snap, his ears pounding as he pushed his glasses closer to his face. Along the snow was a trail of blood and the body sat half in the bushes. Fanning out before him was a sight he had never seen before. No other murderer, no other killer had created something like this ever before.

Then from behind, a large shadow engulfed his vision and he found himself falling into the abyss with nothing to slow his fall.

He jerked upwards, falling from the bed to the floor.

For a split second he was disappointed to discover that he was blind again. It was only in his dreams that he was able to see, see the world as it used to be. Pushing aside the frustration, his hand scrunched at the carpet and unfamiliar woody smells reached his nose. Sweat flooded through every poor of his body and with shaky hands, he wiped it off, massaging his temples as he leaned against whatever he had been on.

“Will?” A voice drew him from his confusion. Memories flooded in like tidal waves.

The long car ride to Hannibal’s office with the too squeaky leather seats and the heater turned on too high. He wanted to leave the car with every kilometre they drove but he was trapped in the moving metal prison.

Then Hannibal’s touch —

Gingerly the psychiatrist had held on to his arm, delicately pulling him away from the cars and his voice took a dulcet tone, telling him how many steps he had to encounter.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulder and Will pulled away like a frightened deer, only to regret his decision when his back hit the chair. He winced, the air rushing out from him as he crumpled back to the floor, his face against the carpet. The question was, how had he fallen asleep? They were meant to be talking. If his memory served him correct, the conversations weren’t that dull that it lulled him into a nightmare induced haze.

“Will,” Doctor Lecter repeated, like a beacon of light in the darkness.

“Water,” Will whispered through cracked lips as his hands touched the chair behind him. He dragged his body up and sat down, letting his head fall between his legs as he sucked in heady breaths.

The sound of heel against wood slowed down in front of him and Will could sense Hannibal’s presence in front of him.

“Your hand please, Will,” Hannibal said. Will held out his hand, waiting for the glass to reach it. The water was lukewarm but it satiated his thirst. He held the glass against his knee and rolled the water around his mouth, trying to get rid of the rancid taste.

Then, a split second later, Hannibal cut through the silence with a simple question. “How are you feeling?”

How was Will Graham feeling?

( _Tired_.)

( _Annoyed_.)

He could not pinpoint his emotions exactly but inside this foreign room he was out of his depth. His stomach rolled about as he maintained his vow of silence. Entering the office, he had given Doctor Lecter vague answers, not fully referring to the questions but not fully disregarding it either.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Will?” Hannibal asked, though the tone sounded a little ominous. Will shook his head, handing the empty cup back to Hannibal.

Then, in a softer voice that did not sound like the Will Graham he thought he was, he whispered. “Can you please describe the room?”

He heard what he thought was a small chuckle and a crack of a smile. The chair screeched against the floor, causing Will to wince in response.

“Can you do that a little quieter next time, please?” Will suggested.  

“I do apologise,” Hannibal replied. “You are currently seated on a lounge chair.”

“No, no,” Will interrupted, strands of his fringe falling across his face. “I don’t want just a description. I want to be able to feel, _taste_ the room.”

The silence that ensued made Will feel like Hannibal had forgotten his request, but he knew that the psychiatrist would not forgot something so trivial in those few seconds.

 “Please,” he whispered. He wanted to say that it would make him feel better, make him feel safer in the environment but the words caught on his throat and if he did say it, he would expose himself to a moment of weakness. One too many times today he had already revealed some weaknesses to the psychiatrist. He did not want to show anymore.

“When you first enter,” Hannibal started, though each word was carefully chosen. “You see that the room is spacious. The walls are lined with bookshelves, hardcover books filling it to the brim. The carpet is blue —"

“What type of blue?”

Hannibal hesitated. “A type of teal. Still new.”

“And the walls? What colour are the walls?” Will’s excitement grew as the image in his mind consolidated. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“A maroon type of red. In the centre of the room, is my work table. Beneath it is an ornate carpet, with a floral pattern. There’s a second floor which has more books up there.”

“How do you feel when you enter?”

He stopped answering for a second.

Will grew fidgety in his seat, wringing his hands together.

“Like my past self when I first started practicing, full of wonder. Ready to taste and devour the fountains of knowledge around me and do my duty. A man who wants to help people and make sure they see their best versions of themselves.”

He pretended to not hear the slight dark turn the psychiatrist’s voice took at the end of that sentence.

“How would you describe most people’s expressions when they first enter?”

Hannibal let out a low, short laugh and the sound was so foreign that it startled Will. But at the same time, it made him happy. He had made another person laugh. It had been a while since he had made someone else laugh other than Alana. It had been a long time since anyone had even made the effort to maintain a conversation longer than thirty minutes with Will and for that he was grateful.

He decided that he wanted to make Hannibal laugh more often. The man sounded too professional for his liking.

“This is dependent on the person entering,” Hannibal replied. “Everyone is an individual, Will. Would you like me to describe how you entered?”

“Sure.”

“With indifference.”

Will’s lips cracked into a smile and he shrugged. “That’s what happens when the whole place smells musty and of old people.”

Another laugh. Another smile.

“Would you like to talk about what happened that night?” Hannibal asked and the question cut the mood entirely.

Disappointment rattled through him at the question and he shrugged. The reality was that he did not want to say what happened, the events from entire night sealed his mouth shut. But the pain against his eyes haunted his nightmares and often crept into the waking world. He had built walls upon walls to stop himself from reliving the moment. Shivering, he rubbed the sides of his arms, pushing back the sleeves of his shirt.

“I’m sorry Will,” Hannibal said quietly. He placed a hand on Will’s shoulder and for the first time he did not flinch. He was beginning to get used to Hannibal’s touch. It was different to Alana’s. It was soft, caring in comparison to Alana’s _strong_ grip. She always had an idea where they were going, Hannibal on the other hand was soft, guiding him to where he wanted.

“I did not mean to pry,” Hannibal replied. His fingertips traced the edges of Will’s shirt until the pads of his fingertips circled his palms. “Maybe one day you will tell me.”

“Maybe one day,” Will repeated, a little monotonously. He lifted his head, noticing that today the cologne Hannibal wore was a lot stronger than before. “But thank you Doctor Lecter. It is good talking to another person other than Alana.”  

“It has been my absolute pleasure.”

Hannibal pulled his hand. Will planted his feet against the ground and waited. He began manoeuvring his way around the office, slowly trying to memorise the layout. It was a habit he had engaged in for areas that he knew he was going to frequent.

“I would like to go home now,” Will said after moments of silence.

“Will, I have something for you.” Hannibal grabbed his hand and placed a figurine on the inside. It felt like a model of something. “It’s a model of my office. It might help you find your bearings in here.”

The clay was hard against his fingertips but it was enough to help him familiarise himself through tactile means. There were areas that seemed like tables and chairs and the details on it were exquisite.

“Who made this for you?”

“I made it myself,” Hannibal replied, pride evident in his voice. “I can make you a model of the city as well.”

Warmth slowly spread across his face and he was unsure how red he was going to appear. At another point in time, he did not care what people thought of him. But strangely, something had changed today. Something clicked within him.  

“Shall we go?”

He slipped the model into his pocket and held his arm out for Hannibal to take. When Hannibal made contact, he whispered, “Thank you for this.”  


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever he was with Hannibal, the world smelt of old books and of hidden secrets. Every time they spoke, Will could sense Hannibal’s reluctance to share more of his stories. It took a couple more weeks for Will to open up and it took even more for Hannibal to start telling him more about himself. Those little snippets of Hannibal’s life were what Will lived for, waiting for the stories to leave the man’s lips and reach his ears. During their sessions, he would learn about Hannibal's infatuation with the arts, his love of food and everything that Will could not understand. But with Hannibal, he felt _alive_. He felt more alive than he had been in the last couple of months. 

It had been a couple of days since they last met.

(Three days, twelve hours)

The only reason why he was within the neighbourhood was Alana’s doing. She had asked to meet up with him and he agreed once she told him that they were to meet at the café she introduced him to Hannibal.

“Promise me you won’t do it,” Alana had said but then she looked at her phone when it buzzed on the table. “It’s _Jack.”_

And that was all she really had to say.

“Can you keep out of trouble?”

Will nodded, an idea bubbling in his mind. “It is hard for a blind man to create trouble, Alana.”

She rushed out of the café, repeating apology after apology until she left.

And that was how he found himself standing outside the gates of Hannibal’s practice, his fingers fumbling for the handle. The metal gate screeched as he tried to open it and with a slight bounce in his step, he walked down the footpath to Hannibal’s office, his heel clicking against the ground.

_One — two — three._

Three steps to the front of the office. The house was probably elevated, which added to its grandeur in his mind. In his _mind_ , the house stood proud, like a safe haven, ready to help whoever steps through those rustic doors. Hannibal had described it to him once, with gothic motifs and ornate carvings around it. But the details blurred into one and it simply was _Hannibal’s_ office. The office that hid the mounds of knowledge. This often led him to wonder what his home was like.

Then there were another three normal steps until he reached the door. The door unlocked as soon as he reached it and he immediately stopped in his tracks.

“Will? I wasn’t expecting you today,” Hannibal said, genuine surprise lacing his voice.

Will knew exactly where Hannibal was but he kept his gaze away from it, hoping to hide the burning sensation in his cheeks. His curls fell across his eyes and he hastily pushed them away with the back of his hands, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants. Then Will heard the other figure’s laboured breathing beside Hannibal.

“Thank you, Franklyn, the same time next week?” Hannibal said to the man beside him. The man named Franklyn muttered something and walked away with hesitance.

“Come in,” Hannibal said, his hand slipping around Will’s arm. He stifled a sigh of relief as he relaxed into the grip, immediately forgetting about his other patient. “I’m glad you came. I really do enjoy our conversations.”

Will’s lips cracked into a small and — what he thought — secretive smile.

“I like it when you smile, Will. You should do it more often.”

Will almost tripped over his feet but he managed to regain his composure a split second later. It was enough for make Hannibal to cough lightly into his fist though there was a hidden laugh in that sound. 

Growing bolder, he asked, “How would you describe it?”

Hannibal mulled over it for a small while. The seconds it took for him to come up with a description was agonising and Will wanted to fill the silence with babble. He wanted to tell Hannibal how he managed to clean his dogs, how soft their fur felt against his hands and how he managed to tell the difference between Winston and the others just by the pitch of their barks.

“It is quite like rain droplets on a rose, reflecting iridescent lights to catch the eye of anyone who was observant enough to look,” Hannibal replied as he leaned across Will to open the door. He slipped out of Hannibal’s grip and moved towards the chair he usually sat in.

“Ack!” he exclaimed as his leg rammed into something. With his fingers, he fervently traced the edges, trying to figure out what it was.

“I apologise, Will,” Hannibal was already by his side, pushing the item out of the way. “My previous patient enjoys moving this table around. I do try to put it back before the next patient.”

Then, through his flustered state, he asked a little quietly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Will replied. “Has anything else been moved?”

“No, no,” Hannibal replied though the repetition made Will imagine that he was looking furiously around, wondering what else was not in its usual place. The image made Will’s legs grow weak but he pushed it aside as quickly as it surged through.

He found the seat without any more hiccups and sat down. He listened carefully for the muffled sound as Hannibal’s feet made their way towards him. The leather squeaked as Hannibal settled into the seat opposite and Will leaned forward, trying to hear more, trying to profile more of an image of Hannibal. 

“What would you like to talk about, today, Will?” Hannibal started.

“Jack Crawford,” Will said slowly, letting the words sit on his lips. “He’s currently having trouble with a murder and he wants me to profile the murderer.”

“And do you want to?”

“How can I?” Will muttered, turning his head away. “I am a blind hound.”

“Have you tried, though?” Hannibal’s voice was soft and kind. It was different to when he heard Jack’s voice on the other side of the line. Jack was always barking orders, like a lieutenant marching up and down, keeping his soldiers in place. Hannibal, on the other hand, was always questioning, was always curious. He never shouted, he never said anything that sounded like an order.

“Tried what?” Will asked.

“Tried going to a crime scene,” Hannibal answered.

“Of course not. Alana —"

“Alana is not your mother, Will,” Hannibal cut in. “Do you believe that your lack of sight will impair your ability?”

“I — I —"

The truth was, Will didn’t know. Every time he entered a crime scene previously, he would be able to go through the details bit by bit, replaying the murder in his mind. It was there he completely immersed himself in the killer. It was in those moments he forgot that he was Will Graham and it was in _those_ moments where he forgot morality.

“I can’t go back,” Will finally said as he made his hands into a steeple close to his face. “Don’t make me go back.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered the event _vividly_.

The burning.

_The pain_.

He began twitching, his breath hitching in his throat. He was tumbling into his memory and he, like an observer, watched as his resolve shattered and the cap he had kept so tightly while he was with others crumble into nothing.

“Will.”

But he could not leave the memory.

“I’m not making you go back,” Hannibal said, though his voice was a little rougher at the edges, panic evident. “Can you still hear me?”

Will screamed until his throat was hoarse and fell to his knees. He began scratching at his eyes, rubbing them, trying his best to stop the pain, to stop the burning. He just wanted it to stop. What could he do to make it stop?

“Will!”

Will tried focusing on the voice.

_Hannibal’s_ voice.

It was easier to slip out from the memory when he was concentrating on something. But he stayed there, stayed within the ghosts of his past, rolling in the laughter of the man who gave him this wound. His hands bundled up as he groaned, twisting his head away.

Hands rolled him to the side and they gripped his shoulders tightly. “Will. It’s all in your mind. Will — William.”

And with that, the pain subsided.

“Doctor Lecter?” Will asked. Hot tears were against his face and he raised his trembling hands, wiping them away with embarrassment. This happened often. This happened a little way too often, but it was never in front of anyone. It was always at home, in the safety of his home. Revealing this to someone else made him feel weak. He tried moving but Hannibal’s grip was firm.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal said with genuine sincerity. “I should never have suggested it.”

Will slumped against Hannibal’s shoulder and leaned against him. Hannibal stiffened at first but relaxed his stance as he held Will close, his fingers buried deep in Will’s curls.

The tears had stopped. Will’s heart stopped hammering in his chest and his ears were no longer ringing.

“Would you like to come over for dinner?”

“I would like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my [tumblr](https://the-teacupshatters.tumblr.com) if you ever want to just chat c:


	4. Chapter 4

The water was cold against his legs, seeping through his slightly waterproofed clothes. The sun reflected light across the river, spreading much-needed warmth against his face. A smile threatened to burst on the corner of his lips as he began tugging at the fishing reel when he felt a slight tug. He came here often, when he needed to be alone or whenever he needed to think properly. Being here was his mechanism of coping.  

The birds tweeted melodically and flitted about him. But as always, the darkness never left him entirely. When he thought he was alone and in his safest memory, the darkness would strike. It seeped through like oil. A dark figure enveloped the corner of his eye and he lost his once sure footing. Falling into the river, he gasped, opening his eyes to darkness once more.

Winston yelped.

“I’m sorry boy, come back,” Will crooned, his voice croaky. Soon, Winston returned and rested his head on Will’s lap. With the back of his hand, Will stroked him gently and lowered his face against the dog’s nose, kissing it with fondness. Winston’s fur was soft against his fingers and it stilled his heart that beat so rapidly in his chest.

He reached out to press the button on his watch.

“Five fifty-three in the evening,” the cold, metal voice echoed. It was nearing the time Hannibal had told him that he was going to pick him up and take him to his place for dinner.

As each second passed, Will’s ears strained to hear the sounds of a car nearing him but he was only greeted by the rain hitting the roof melodically. There was once a time where Will enjoyed the rain but now it dulled his senses and acted as a distraction rather than a reprieve.

Winston’s bark rattled his bones. It was a staccato burst, sudden that he snapped his head towards the sound of his dog’s paw hitting the wooden planks.

“What is it?” Will said, standing up, trying to follow Winston. But it was hard to pinpoint the dog’s position and he stood there dumbly, listening as Winston’s barks echoed among the surroundings.

An engine spluttered to a halt and the door was slammed with such vivacity Will _knew_ that it was not Hannibal. And it was not Alana. She always called him the day before, telling him when she would be coming as well as giving him updates on how far she was. Taking subconscious steps backwards, his fingers found his cane. He held it out defensively, lowering his gaze as he simply focussed on the water splashing around the person’s footfall.

“Will, it’s alright,” the voice said and he felt his heart drop to new depths. “It’s only me.”

“Jack,” Will repeated for his own sake, cementing the fact that he was not hallucinating.

“Have you been sitting outside? It’s raining,” Jack said, wrapping a sturdy hand on Will’s shoulder as he pushed him inside. Unable to protest, Will squeezed his lips together, whistling. Winston’s wet paws hit the wooden floorboards seconds later and he nuzzled at Will’s leg, signalling that he was there. Will rewarded him with a small scratch behind the ear as he moved his way to the living room.

Though, if Will heard correctly, there was a small growl by Winston as he passed Jack.

He heard Jack settle down on one of his couches, but Will chose to remain standing. He folded his arms and leaned against the mantelpiece. “You look like you’ve lost weight, Jack. Or should I say, sound like you’ve lost weight.”

Jack let out a tight breath but he refused to take the bait. “This place is a mess, Will.”

“Oh, is it?” Will raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t see. Let me tidy it.”

“ _Will_ ,” Jack said, his voice low and menacing.

Will sighed, gritting his teeth. He was waiting for Hannibal, not Jack. “What are you doing here, Jack? You didn’t call.”

“I have tried getting into contact with you, Will, but you have been ignoring my messages.”

“Why do you even want me?”

“Because three murders have happened in the last week and we have got no leads, nothing,” Jack’s voice was loud. It was always loud and commanding. Will tried his best to reign in his annoyance and winced.  

“I’m useless to you,” Will said as he turned around to face the wall. His fingers traced the edge of the mantelpiece as he began to memorise each curve and bump that he once saw. He missed knowing what his place looked like and Jack’s presence only made his heart rattle like a broken part behind his breastbone.

“Are you really?”

“I can’t see anymore.”

“But you do have other senses,” Jack said, choosing his words carefully. “We need you, Will. We need you before the murderer strikes again.”

Will shook his head. “No more. It’s over.”

“Do you want to _stay_ here and waste your life or do you want to carry out justice?” Jack roared, getting to his feet.

Will replied, barely audible. “You broke me, Jack.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Though Will knew that Jack had heard the words as if he had not whispered them. The way that his grip tightened on the back of the leather seat signalled it.

Instead of repeating the sentence, Will straightened his back. “Jack, I would like you to leave.”

“What?”

“You heard him,” another voice entered the fray. Will had not felt more relief in his life. He turned to face Hannibal in the doorway. “Mr Crawford, I would prefer if you did not antagonise my patie— friend.”

The slip up was enough for Will to notice. He stored the anger for another time.

“Doctor Lecter, you did not tell me you were coming here tonight,” Jack exclaimed though the confusion was evident in his voice. His clothes rustled as he patted them down and he pulled them tighter to his body. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” Hannibal replied. The eerie calm was enough to make anyone in the room shudder. “Were you?”

“No, I was just leaving,” Jack said, slightly flustered. Will schooled his grin and maintained animosity at Jack who began walking away from him. “Will. Think about it. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t urgent. _Please_.”

Then, to the side, Jack tried to seek support from Hannibal.

“Please help me change his mind,” Jack said, though when Hannibal did not reply immediately, Jack lowered his voice even more. “I need him. Now more than ever.”

“I can't do it, I’m sorry Jack,” Hannibal said, hoping to be out of Will’s hearing. But even though Will heard it, he was focussing on Jack’s final words. His plea.

 _Please_.

Will shook his head, disgust radiating through him as the word repeated like a mantra in his own mind. Jack had just said _please_. Was he that desperate? The murder had been on the radio and if he had the sight, he would have been able to read it on Tattle Crime, but he decided to keep his mind untainted. It was easier this way. He hated being in the minds of people.

He turned around only to bump into warm arms. Jerking back, his shoulder blades hit the wall and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to increase the distance between the two of them.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal said, noticing his discomfort. He took a step back and Will almost folded in on himself with relief.

“It’s okay, it was — it was my fault,” Will said. “I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”

“What did Jack want?”

Will’s lip curved. It was funny that Hannibal asked him the question. He _knew_ already. “You know what he wants.”

“I want to hear it from you,” Hannibal replied, barely phased.

“What he always wants.”

Then, he finally took the bait. “You.”

“He wants to know if I’m still useful,” Will replied though his voice broke. Jack’s presence was just another knife to open is wounds, a reminder that he was broken and torn down. He had brought him over the edge once and he was willing to do it again for the sake of justice.

“Will, you will always be useful,” Hannibal said, slowly. He ran a comforting hand along Will’s back and led him towards the door. “Tell me, Will, do you still see anything?”

Did he see anything? Through the darkness that plagued him, he trembled.

“Fire,” Will replied, letting the words sit rancid on his tongue. He licked his lips. “I see our world on fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to shoot me a message on [tumblr](https://the-teacupshatters.tumblr.com)! c:


	5. Chapter 5

It was only Hannibal’s steady arm that made Will Graham feel safe. On this side of the world, everything was foreign to him: the sounds of the leaves rustling against the concrete, the slight tang of pine trees against the horizon. Despite his fear, he was exhilarated. It had been far too long since someone had given him kindness. It had been far too long since he was in another person’s company, and although he did not mind the isolation, he found that this event created a kink in the horribly smooth arch of his life.

“Five steps,” Hannibal said, his voice as soft as falling petals. There was a slight change in temperature as Will stepped up and his skin no longer tingled under the touch of sunlight. His hair was still damp and his curls cascaded across his eyes. He hastily pushed them out of the way before realising the irony in his movement.

During their car ride, one that was spent mostly in silence, the sun had burst through the clouds and Will enjoyed the sun’s rays against his skin. He found that as time went on, the more his senses became refined and the more he was able to tell the difference between things that he would have overlooked otherwise.

“It’s okay William,” Hannibal said but Will was unsure what he was responding to. He stopped, listening for Hannibal’s movements that were done with careful thought and measure. The man was meticulous. Even the way he opened doors was an art well-thought out. “You can come in. There is nothing in the way.”

“Thank you,” Will said. He shoved his hand into his pockets, feeling for the model of his office. It was not the same but the thought that Hannibal had spent hours perfecting such a small item for Will to familiarise himself with the office made his lip quirk in happiness. 

“Are you okay?”

“It’s just really —” Will tried to find the word. “Big.”

“My house?” The amusement was easy to find in Hannibal’s voice.

Will sniffed the air, trying to pinpoint the smell. It was sweet, with hints of — he had no idea. He was no culinary expert. The most experience he had was trying to boil spaghetti and a bit of mince. It ended with the meal being a less than satisfactory, to say the very least, but it was still edible. Whenever you were hungry, you always ate the food you cooked, no matter how bad it tasted.

“I guess it is. Wouldn’t want you to get lost,” Hannibal said as he dragged his fingers down to grasp Will’s hand. “Tonight, I would like you to explore your sense of taste.”

“You know, when you said you were going to take me out for dinner, I expected a restaurant,” Will said. He expected Hannibal to take him out to one of the fanciest restaurants and for there to be waiters filling water every so often. At least, that was his image of high-end restaurants. He rarely crossed the threshold, if ever.

“Ah,” Hannibal hesitated. “I am extremely picky with what I eat. I rather make it myself.”

“Of course.”

“I am a good chef if you are concerned.”

“Thank you for quietening my concerns,” Will said, trying his best not to laugh. For the first time, Hannibal seemed flustered. It was amusing to listen to the way that his words left his lips quickly, trying to defend himself. “Hannibal. It’s okay. I don’t know much about food.”

“Then we’ll have to change that,” Hannibal replied. The slight curl in his voice ebbed with something ominous, something mischievous. Will could not put a word on how he would describe it, but he was curious.

His fingers traced the wall.

“That would be a painting,” Hannibal said, answering Will’s questioning stare. “I know you cannot appreciate art at this moment but it is one of my favourites.”

“You are an artist.”

“I appreciate art as much as I appreciate science. The two should never have diverged,” Hannibal said curtly. “Okay, we have reached the dining room.”

“What does it look like?”

“Quite bluntly, beautiful. It is the room I show to guests all the time.”

“But what is it made of?”

“In the centre, there is a long table, one that can seat many guests. To your left, there is a fireplace. It is not widely decorated, but enough to add an air of sophistication. The lights above you are of the highest quality and spread enough light to make the room seem larger than it actually is.”

The chair squeaked loudly against the wooden floor and Will took a seat. His fingers traced the edge of the table as Hannibal pushed him in. “Is there anything you would like me to help you with?”

This elicited a small chuckle from Hannibal. “Perhaps another day you can be my sous-chef.”

“Sous-chef,” Will said, letting the words sit on his lips. “I’d like that.”

Hannibal was behind him, where he said the fireplace was. His knees hit something that did not sound like wood and Will waited, listening as the match struck the edge of the box, roaring to life. The bellows hissed as it deflated, expelling air.

“I apologise for my house being cold. It is old. Hopefully, this will help,” Hannibal said as he placed the bellows by the side of the mantelpiece. “You are free to sit near the fire if you are cold. I will bring out the first course in approximately ten minutes.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any —"

“Tonight, William,” Hannibal interrupted. “You are to be my guest. Nothing more. Tonight, I wish to show you a new world.”

A new world. Will looked down and laughed, pushing his glasses further up his eyes. The seat was not entirely comfortable, but he believed that it was stylish. Often comfort was opted out for style, he found. And Hannibal, at least, to him, seemed like one of the most stylish men he knew — but to be fair, he did not know many.

It took a couple of minutes for the room to warm up. He twisted out of his seat and stumbled towards the fireplace, stopping when the flames were too strong. He held his hands out, rubbing them together. It was not until Hannibal had set the fire that he realised how cold he actually was.

Footsteps echoed behind him as Hannibal re-entered the room. The plate clattered delicately on the table and Will found himself turning, making his way back to the chair he had left. His fingers gripped the back of the seat and lifted it before taking a seat.

“To start off with,” Hannibal said, declaring his art. “You are to have a grilled quail with mango.”

Will’s hands felt around for the knives and forks, relief flooding him when they weren’t too hard to find.

“Try the ones further out, Will,” Hannibal suggested.

Will moved his hands a little more, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “Why are there so many knives and forks?”

“Because we are to have more than one meal,” Hannibal answered.

“Okay,” Will said, his voice drawing out, not completely understanding.

“Have you never been to a high-end restaurant?”

“Not really,” Will replied. “I’m not in that scene. To me, it just means more things to clean.”

“You do not have a dishwasher?”

“I live alone, Doctor Lecter, I do not need a dishwasher.”

“Fair point,” Hannibal said. “Would you like some help? I have deboned everything. The quail was particularly hard to catch, quite flighty.”

“You caught it yourself?”

“Of course. I told you, I am extremely picky with what I put in my mouth,” Hannibal said, leaning over. Will could feel his hot breath against his neck as he cut the quail. The knife hit the plate with such a loud jolt that Will flinched.

“I do apologise,” Hannibal said. “Open.”

“I can feed myself,” Will muttered. “I have been working on my skills since I was blinded.”

“Apologies again,” Hannibal said, passing the fork to him.

Will placed the meat in his mouth, letting the taste settle on the back of his tongue. He scrunched his face as he tried to figure out the amalgamation of tastes in his mouth.

“Do you not like it?” Hannibal seemed offended.

“It’s amazing,” Will breathed when he swallowed. “It’s nothing I’ve ever tasted before. I — “

“I’m glad,” Hannibal said, happiness clearly radiating from him. Will did not have to see his smile, he could sense anyone’s happiness easily. It was part of his empathy, a part that did not need his sight entirely.

“You called me your patient earlier,” Will finally decided to bring the subject up.

“It was a careless mistake,” Hannibal responded almost immediately.

“Was it?”

“I see you as a friend who requires friendship, people who understand you. I analyse people for a living, just as you do. It is hard for me to turn that off and occasionally I mistake friends for patients,” Hannibal said. “I do apologise if it offended you.”

“You’ve said enough apologies tonight,” Will said as he took another bite.

“And for that, I’m sorry.”

“Please stop,” Will said, searching for the glass around him.

He jerked away when his hand found something warm, stumbling back from his chair. Glass shattered around him and he winced. The darkness was all encompassing and he squinted for the briefest moment, being able to see something that he did not want to. He focussed on the ground, trying to listen to someone or _something_.

Then there it was, a shadow that plagued his mind. He rolled over, trying to stand up, but two steady hands helped him to his feet. He breathed heavily, sucking in breaths that stilled his rapidly beating heart but it was the darkness that was holding onto him. A horned creature that guided him yet tripped him at the same time.

“Are you the one who blinded me?” Will said as loudly as he dared.

“Will, it is only me.”

A voice. A very familiar voice.

He was tugged back into reality rapidly. “Sorry. I —"

“Your empathy still drags you to dark places, doesn’t it?” Hannibal said though there was clear curiosity laced in his voice.

“It does. It’s worse now that I can’t see,” Will said slowly. It was hard to explain but he felt obliged to tell Hannibal about it. “It’s like leading a herd of people down a dark, narrow tunnel, where any wrong step can shatter you mind completely.”

Hannibal’s hands traced the pads of Will’s fingertips. “We’re going to have to clean that up.”

“I’m so sorry about your crockery,” Will said quietly. The food had left a stain on his shirt and he could smell the combination of flavours on him. Annoyed at himself for falling into the abyss so suddenly, he wished he could turn back time. All he wanted to do was enjoy dinner, not have this turn into another therapy session.

“It is fine, dear William,” Hannibal said, leading him into another room. He pulled out a chair and the sound of water hitting the sink filled the room. Will waited patiently, his fingers tracing at the warm blood against his palms. There was a slight metallic scent that laced the air and for the first time, he wondered if it was bad.

“You don’t need stitches, but I would like to try to clear most of the glass.”

Hannibal’s touch was soft as he began to wash the blood away. He moved rhythmically and easily like he had done this a million times before.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I was a practising surgeon prior to being a psychiatrist,” Hannibal responded.

“Do you know everything?”

“I know what interests me,” Hannibal said as he applied a little pressure on the wound. “Does this hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Of course, you have.” Hannibal began to dry Will’s hand. He brought Will’s hand to his face, his lips brushing the back of it.

“Did you just —"

“A good luck measure,” Hannibal said, again interrupting Will’s ill-formed sentence. “I also needed to see up close if there was anything I missed.”

Will decided to leave the subject alone but confusion still radiated from him. It was purposely done but at the same time, he was unsure what the implications were. They had known each other for barely a week and multiple times, Hannibal had saved him from the brink of losing himself. It was something that even he could not do.

“I would like to wash your shirt as well, Will.”

Will prolonged the silence, wondering what Hannibal meant. But when Hannibal did not say anything further, he exclaimed, “You want me to take my shirt off?”

“Something like that,” Hannibal said with amusement. “It’s fine, Will. I’ll get you another shirt, one of mine. It would be a little big but perhaps it will be easier to sleep when you do not smell of food.”

“I don’t particularly mind.”

“I don’t want you tarnishing my bed covers,” Hannibal said. “So I insist.”

“I’m staying over tonight?” That was not part of the plan, he was to go back home, back to his dogs. Not stay here, in a strange house.

“I need to make sure you do not hurt yourself again tonight, Will,” Hannibal said quietly. “Do you trust me?”

Hannibal Lecter. The man who could take his pain away, the man who could cook, the man who could patch him up when he was broken. Did he trust him?

“Yes,” Will said. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so many assignments and increased work hours this week and I got stressed so I decided to write this instead. Yeah I hope you enjoyed it, things will start picking up after this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6

It was one of _those_ days.

Will Graham had his hand firmly fastened around his cane, his knuckles growing white as he tried to hide back his clear distaste. There was a cacophony of sounds around him, blending in watery hues. It was the first time he had experienced such vivid sounds, vivid smells. Everything about this house was foreign to him but at the same time, he greedily took the information in, like it was the only thing that was keeping him alive. His head thrummed in pain as he tried to push it all out, shift past the _bullshit_.

At every step they took, Hannibal had given him the option to leave. The closer they got to the crime scene, the more painful his analysis. Groaning, he stopped, looking downwards as he tried to get a reading on what his surroundings were. The night was... bright. That was how Will would describe it. Everything spoke at once, the trees, the leaves, the small bugs that buzzed around his face. Stepping inside was a reprieve. He leaned heavily against the wall, resting his thoughts for a single moment. 

"Will," Hannibal's voice was as smooth as honey. Will focused on it. It was a voice that kept him grounded in the present, especially during moments like this. He was unsure why he had agreed to come to analyse the crime scene. He was unsure why he had even been lulled into a false sense of security. Breath hitched in his throat, he gasped for air as his tongue hung pathetically in his mouth. 

“We don’t have to be here,” Hannibal said, reminding him with every step they took. Will shrugged. He had said that throughout their car ride in the all too stuffy metallic prison and he was going to say it again until it was too late.

Until Will Graham had fallen _too_ deep.

But the FBI was having so much trouble locating this killer that he could not stand by and do anything. As long as he kept his distance, as long as he didn’t _snap_.

(But he was already fallen.) 

(He was already broken.)

He slowly moved down to his haunches as his fingers touched the ground gingerly. It was custom for him to wear gloves but gloves restricted his ability to touch, so the FBI had given him a waiver.

Tried to, at least.

“Jack, what is Will doing here?” Beverley exclaimed. “You know he shouldn’t be here. You know that, don’t you?”

Jack Crawford's commandeering tone cut off all the protests from Beverley Katz. She had said that he was not going to help, that he shouldn't be here. Beverly seemed like Will's only friend within the department and although she asked questions that were far too pointed for his liking, he still preferred her company over others.

"Her hands are severed," Jack said over Beverley’s loud protests. She huffed and folded her arms, leaning against something that creaked. "The last one had the woman had her nose taken off, and the one before's legs. We don't know why he's collecting these body parts."

The blood was sticky beneath his fingertips and he lifted it towards his nose, sniffing it. There were faint, unfamiliar smells that lingered.

"Grass and pollen," Will murmured, wiping his hand against his pants roughly. "From a park. The man was at a park before this."

"How is that meant to help?" Jack said in a low rumble. His foot hit the pavement periodically as he impatiently waited for Will to interpret the evidence.

"The evidence is there, Jack, you're just not looking close enough," Will said, a little bolder. "Everything helps."

Hannibal's breath left him in quick successions and Will was acutely aware that he was trying to hold back. Tilting his head to the side, Will sent a questioning glance at Hannibal who barely noticed.

"Jack, let's leave Will to it," Beverley said as she led Jack away. “But he shouldn’t be here.”

“Stop. Now isn’t the time.”

Beverley was about to continue protesting but she simply shook her head and moved away. If it had been any other time, Will would have been amused at her defiance. But he was here to do a job and he was here to give them answers.

“Promise me this will be the last time,” Will said before Jack left the room.

He didn’t answer that question, instead, he said, "When you're ready to talk, you talk."

His words were eerily familiar from a time before. "We'll be downstairs."

"Hannibal, are you coming?" Beverley asked. 

"He can stay," Will said immediately. The two of them exchanged looks to one another and he could sense their clear confusion, wondering why, out of all of them, Will trusted Doctor Lecter to stay with him.

"Tell us when you're ready," Beverley said as she closed the door behind her. The room vibrated a little and unexpectedly felt larger and less stifling.

Despite the crime scene in front of him, Will's shoulders lifted with relief. He loosened the top button of his shirt and sat on the bed, tilting his head to the ceiling. "That's better."

"Do you need me to do anything?" Hannibal asked as he walked around the scene. His steps echoed in the room, the wooden floorboards complaining about each step he took.

Will shook his head as his fingers traced the murder scene, touching the body of the woman. “Can you please describe her to me?”

“She has long brown hair that falls in ringlets around her face. She’s shorter than you, I would say, and her cheeks are hollowed out to reveal bones. To me, it would look as if she is undernourished, perhaps purposely or perhaps not,” Hannibal said, his descriptions letting Will sink further and further into the scene. His imagination toyed with his mind, letting the scene play out like they were actors in a theatre performance.

His hands reached out as he stepped backwards, hand gripping the knife that had materialised by his belt.

The pendulum swung rhythmically across his sight. Colours speckled into view, shadows playing against his eyelids. His steps backwards were done with measured precision, lip curling.

Suddenly, he was within the mind of the murderer. The scene played out vividly in his head as he climbed across the woman, touching her with reverence. The details surprised him, making his stomach curl in shock. He had not expected her to be so _visible_. Her porcelain face stared back at him and Will placed two fingers against her lips, a wolfish smile on his face.

"Don't make a sound, or I'll kill your parents too," Will said, his voice low and menacing. With the back of his knife, he traced her neck and watched as she trembled, her eyes following the blade.

"Who are you?" She asked, her voice cracking, her eyes wide. This part was the best part. The fear in their eyes. He was finally able to assert the dominance no one thought he ever had. They thought he was meek, they thought he was _no body_.

"Uh, uh," he said, shushing her. He stuck out his bottom lip. "Remember what I said."

He flipped the knife around, applying enough pressure so that it drew blood. Tilting his head, his hand stroked her cheekbones and placed his two around her neck. "What do you think?"

Her eyes darted from side to side, trying to look for an escape.

"No. Do you think you can escape?" He shook his head repeatedly. "No. No. There is no return."

But before she was able to do anything, his hands tightened around her neck and he thumped her against the bed until her eyes rolled back. Her head lolled and she slumped against the pillow but her heartrate beneath his thumb never stopped.

The knife scraped down as the blood bled across the pillow. The once pristine white covers were now stained red. Will breathed, tilting his head to the ceiling. His ran his hands over his cheeks, the warm blood making him shudder with delight. Her hands were delicate. They would do.

They would suit the creature that he was creating. As he began severing her hand, he tilted his head to the side and darkness engulfed him once more. The sheer exhilaration of being able to see made his head giddy and he couldn't help but feel disappointed that he could no longer see again.

"Patches," Will said loudly. He turned around to face Hannibal. "The killer is trying to create the most beautiful creature."

"Shall I call in Jack?" Hannibal said. He was still standing in the corner of the room and for the first time, Will wanted to know what he was doing and why he had stood there for most of it.

"I'll find him," Will replied as he undid the cane, snapping out. Hannibal moved in an attempt to get to the door, but Will's hands were already on the door.

He twisted it with force.

"What else did you see, Will? You look pale," Hannibal said.

He tapped at the ground slightly and began swinging his cane back and forth, making sure that each step was careful enough that he didn't fall. "I saw everything. I enjoyed killing her."

"That does not make you a killer, Will," Hannibal said, his hand resting on his shoulder as he tried to slow the blind man.

"Everyone thinks about death," Will replied with force. "The sane people don't really do it."

"God kills people all the time."

"And how about you?"

Hannibal stiffened beside him, his hand dropping off Will's shoulder.

"Hannibal?"

"Does the killer think he's blessed?"

"He's making up for a mistake," Will replied. "He's creating something or someone."

His hands glided across the bannister and he took each step measuredly. Hannibal had not followed him as he turned to face the crime scene once more. Will chose to ignore him and listened out for Jack and Beverley. The house had become a crime scene and within the lounge room, he could hear Jack talking to the woman's parents. Their loud sobs rattled through the house and he was unable to drown them out, no matter how hard he thought. It was the price of his overactive imagination. He was able to access everyone and everything.

Driven by fear, Will suddenly hated himself for being able to tap so easily into the criminal.

"Will," Beverley exclaimed as she got stumbled up the stairs in thuds. He tried his best not to pay too much attention to her as her hand snaked around his, helping down the stairs.

"I can do this myself," Will said, his voice barely audible. Beverly reluctantly let go of him but she stayed beside him as he navigated his way down the stairs. When they reached the base, Beverley moved away, but she hovered close to him, not daring to leave him alone.

"Will," Jack's sombre growl said. He leaned against the doorframe. "Keep what you're about to say down, please."

Will adjusted his gaze so that he was staring at him. "He's building something. A picture, a statue. Something that can show his love for each one of these women. He loves them, Jack. He wants them to be something else. In their current form, they aren't perfect. They're -- "

"Incomplete," Hannibal finished for him. He was a couple of metres behind him but his voice carried enough momentum to be effective. "If I am correct, the murders have all been of women in their late twenties, light skinned."

"He wants something that he's lost," Will said.

"And what is that?" Jack asked.

"His wife," Will replied, his finger tapping at the wall. "If we can find his wife, then we could know who he's trying to target."

"So what you're saying is," Jack started, not fully wanting to believe it. "He's taking features of women that most resembled his wife and he's building her again."

"Patches. She'll be a patchwork creature living in a clockwork world," Will answered. "He wants to reanimate her."

"That's impossible. The man is insane."

"He's a psychopath, Jack," Will reminded. "He does not deserve these labels."

Jack began pacing. "Let me talk to her parents again. Will, you're free to leave. We'll talk about this again tomorrow."

"And what? Draw up a psychological profile? Why don't you get Doctor Bloom to do that? She wouldn't want to see me there," Will said, his voice rougher with loathing. "Have you even told her that you managed to convince me?"

"I did."

"And what did she say?"

"She was severely unhappy," Jack replied through pressed lips.

"I think that's an understatement," Beverley cut in as Hannibal coughed lightly into his fist. "A _severe_ understatement."

“Or even better, why not get _Hannibal_ to do it? You seemed very interested in getting him to convince me to get back here,” Will spat, anger rising in his voice.

“Will, let us talk about this another time,” Jack growled. “There are other people here.”

"Shall we go?" Hannibal asked Will, his firm hand gripping his shoulder. He was

Will nodded, eager to leave the stifling house. When the cold air bit at his cheeks, he sucked in each breath with newfound rigour.

"I'll drive you home," Hannibal said.

"It's far. I can call a taxi," Will replied curtly.

"I don't think you are in any state to go home by yourself."

Will was too tired to argue. He followed Hannibal, a couple of steps behind as they trudged through the snow. Sliding into the awfully cold car, he leaned his head against the window, his eyes closing as sleep encompassed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, finally easter break. Enjoy the holidays. 
> 
> Celebratory chapter writing! c:


	7. Chapter 7

Will woke up drenched in cold sweat. His stomach lurched as his head hit the ground and his hand splayed out like a cat trying to redeem itself. The carpet was scratchy against his forearms and he lowered his head so that his forehead just touched the ground. He hated those dreams. They were anxiety dreams, the dreams of the outcome he feared the most. There were days where he could not find himself, he could not remember who he was and those were the days he feared joining all the criminals he had locked up in Baltimore.

He squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to remember the events of the previous night. He had just come back from a case with the killer who Zeller had so aptly named: _Doctor Frankenstein_. But the last thing he remembered was falling asleep as Hannibal drove him home. He couldn’t even remember how he managed to get into bed.

Winston nuzzled at his chest, whining as he tried to nudge Will back to the bed. He gasped as the pain split through his temples and he bit down hard on his tongue, hoping that he could cancel out that pain by creating more pain.

“It’s okay,” Will murmured, but he was merely reminding himself that it was okay, not Winston. He knitted his eyebrows together, pulling the dog close as he inhaled Winston’s slightly damp fur. He let the dog’s warmth press against his slightly feverish state. The humidity in the air was familiar to that of the morning and he took his time as he tried to get to his feet, pressing the button to the clock on his bedside table.

10:06am.

“Shit,” he murmured, moving rapidly around the room. It was late. _He_ was late. He was meant to be somewhere, but he couldn’t remember where. It was alright, he would remember the details when the person he asked to pick him up came. He cursed again loudly, his leg flaring up in pain at a misplaced piece of furniture. Pushing it out of the way angrily, he placed it against the wall, calling out, “Buster? Did you _seriously_ have to move this?”

He had no idea if it was Buster, but usually, all the screeching of furniture against the wooden floor was attributed to him. He was small, but he enjoyed playing the game of music chairs.

Then, he noticed a strange smell in his house.

Unable to figure out what it was immediately, he slowly followed it. His fingers traced the walls and he concentrated on the sound of something similar to water hitting the tiled floor.

_Drip, drip_ , it went, like a metronome marking out the time that passed.

If he could put a description on it, it was like the smell of ground up metal and… a little bit of milk? The list of thoughts grew confusing and when he reached the bathroom, he stopped thinking entirely. It was easier to simply explore the evidence.  

Getting onto his haunches, his hands began to search for the foreign object. As he touched it, he jumped backwards like a startled deer, shoulder blades hitting the wall first. Along with the blood, there was also the smell of an animal. Some sort of fur that stuck to the woman’s clothes. Before he was able to explore anymore, he decided that it was enough. This body had intruded upon his safe place. The place where he thought nothing bad would ever happen. He sprinted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He left a bloody hand mark against the door handle. Unsure what to do, he pressed his hand against his face, his breathing erratic.

“What happened? What happened?” he muttered to himself, tracing through the thoughts in his mind. When no answers came, he tilted his head back.

_“Will?”_

The voice almost caused him to fall over in shock. Gathering his composure, he straightened his body. “You’re way too quiet.”

“Will, you’re covered in blood,” Hannibal said. Will was unsure about his current state, but his hands felt tainted. Even if he could wash them off, the blood would remain. “What’s in the bathroom, Will?”

“I don’t know,” Will said honestly. Then he repeated a little softly. “I don’t know.”

Hannibal’s hand slowly moved Will’s hand out of the way. The door unlocked and Will was forced to move away from the door. There was a slight intake of breath and Hannibal gently pushed the latched the door back.

“What did you do, Will?”

“I didn’t do _anything_ ,” Will replied. He was absolutely certain. “This has to be a message of some sort. A warning.”

He jumped when he heard a monotonous voice say, “ _Jack, Jack, Jack”_ as his phone vibrated in the distance. Will tried moving towards it, but his bearings were all wrong. Hannibal’s hand was on his shoulder and he held out the mobile, the sounds of Jack’s name muffled by his palms.

“It’s Jack,” Hannibal said.

“Really?” Will replied sarcastically.

Before Hannibal gave it to Will, he asked, “What are you going to tell him?”  

“I’ll ask him to come over straight away,” Will muttered. He answered the call and winced when he was met by Jack’s loud barking.

“Will, you said you were coming two hours ago,” he exclaimed. “Where are you?”

“Home,” Will replied, words slowly manufactured around his lips. “I need you to investigate my bathroom. It could be a crime scene.”

There was silence as if Jack didn’t want to believe it. Then, after the few moments of silence, he said, “Sorry?”

“It’s a crime scene now,” Will said slowly.

“Is there anyone with you?”

“Doctor Lecter.”

“Doctor Lecter seems to be very good at being in places where that have just been declared crime scenes,” Jack said bitterly. He let out a tight stream of air and shook his head. “I will be over soon. I know I don’t need to tell you this, but don’t touch it.”

“I already have…”

“Will, did you just taint a crime scene?” Jack’s exasperated tone was evident.

“I had no idea what it was!” Will parried. “Jack I’m _blind_ , in case you didn’t know. I was trying to figure out what it was.”

“Okay. But don’t touch it anymore. We need to see if we can get some prints from it,” Jack said and the line went silent. Will shakily lowered his phone. His hand was still caked in whoever’s blood and his stomach rolled into tight knots.

What if he was the one who killed the woman? What if he was the murderer that they were all looking for? He pushed those thoughts aside hastily. He was not unstable, he had no blackouts, nothing. Just bad dreams, just bad repetitions of things that had happened in the past.

“I brought you breakfast,” Hannibal said, out of the blue.

Will shook his head. “I just need coffee.”

“I’ll make it for you,” Hannibal replied. “But firstly let me get rid of the blood on your face and hands.”

Hannibal’s steady hand guided Will towards the kitchen. The water streamed out of the tap and hit the metal in rhythmic bursts as Hannibal ran his hand beneath it. When he was satisfied with the temperature, he slowly took Will’s hand and rubbed the blood away. It felt better, to say the least. It felt better to not be covered in blood. Will’s anxieties melted for a second. He jerked back suddenly when he felt Hannibal’s hands on his face, but Hannibal was patient and he tilted his head to the side.

“I’m sorry, Will, just a little more,” Hannibal said softly. “Just a little more.”

Will froze as Hannibal touched his face. There was something else in that touch, something that he could barely remember. For the strangest moment, it was like fire. He felt like something was burning his face. He wanted to pull away, he wanted to run, but there was nothing he could do.

“Will, _Will_?” Hannibal repeated though his voice was oddly distant.

“You.”

“Sorry?”

Will swallowed and shook his head. “Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?”

“Just coffee is fine,” Will murmured. He didn’t feel like eating anyway. Who could have an appetite after seeing that?

* * *  

Jack was over a couple hours later with the entire team. They began investigating Will’s bathroom, their voices soft murmurs as they did it with diligent precision. The scratching was loud against the wood and Will found that the longer he waited, the quicker his heart palpitated in his chest. This crime was gift-wrapped. It was used to show him something that he could not find by himself. He tilted his head a little, trying to figure it out.

“Will, what did you do last night?” Jack said. He was leaned against his kitchen benchtop. Though at any moment, Will knew that Jack was going to start pacing back and forth in the room. “Tell me exactly what you did.”

“Are you saying that I am a suspect?” Will asked. Though, it was a logical conclusion. The body was in his house and he had tainted the entire crime scene by trying to figure out what it was that lay on the tiles of his bathroom. If only he waited, he groaned quietly to himself.

“You were the only one who discovered this.”

“What can a _blind_ man do, Jack? How could I even manage to find an entirely new person’s house?” Will exclaimed.

“I’m not saying that you carried out the murder,” Jack said and began pacing. “But it is likely.”

“Jack,” Will muttered slowly. “I did not do this. I did _not_ do this.”

“He’s right,” Hannibal joined in. He sucked in a deep breath, about to spin a story, like a spider web of lies. “I was with Will the entire night. He did not go anywhere.”

Will was unsure whether or not that was true, but he thanked Hannibal silently anyway. Those words were helpful against the accusatory tone that Jack was taking on.

“Then you both didn’t hear the man enter your bathroom?” Jack still suspected them. Perhaps he thought that they both worked together on this. Will shook his head in response. “You’re telling me not a single one of you heard the window shatter?”

That was news to Will. He turned to face Hannibal, hoping that the man would answer for him.

“I heard it shatter,” Hannibal said coolly. “I went to investigate in the middle of the night but I was unable to find its location. It was dark and I was still slightly hazy from sleep.”

Jack shook his head. “What were you two even doing last night that warranted Hannibal to stay over?”

“Will told me it was unsafe to drive back at this time. The ride back home is long, Jack,” Hannibal replied. He seemed as if he had his entire alibi set up, everything that Will never thought he would have to do, summed up in a couple of words. “I am certain that this is not Will. But it is the act of the killer you are trying to catch.”

“We found antler velvet in one of the wounds,” Beverly said, interrupting the conversation. Will was thankful for that slight moment of reprieve.

“Antler velvet, it promotes healing,” Will murmured. That explained the animal fur that he smelt. He drummed his fingers against his chin, trying to remember the locations of places around him. “There’s a deer farm a good two hours from here. We should have a look at the place.”

“But why?”

“If he’s trying to reanimate his wife,” Will said slowly. “Then he’ll need to prevent the decomposition process as best as he can.”

“Do you think he’s solved the one mystery of bringing back a person to life?” Hannibal said with morbid curiosity. Will shook his head. He had no way of telling for sure, but the man was clearly trying to do _something_ with it.

“Jack, I believe you need to have a look at the deer farm. It will be your best shot,” Will nodded. Beverly was silent beside Will. It was only her breathing that allowed him to know her presence. She was nervous, nervous of something that Will couldn’t figure out. He tried moving his hand out to her, to calm her but lowered it when he heard Jack’s head shake back and forth, torn between indecision.

“Alright, we’ll go later today. Katz, zip up the body,” Jack ordered. “See if you can find any more evidence on him. We’ll drive to the deer farm.”

“He has to be a surgeon to have managed these perfect cuts,” Beverly noted. “Or at least, something of a similar profession.”

“A butcher, perhaps?” Will shrugged. “He sees these women as animals. He doesn’t think that they’re anything else.”

Will’s eyes flashed dangerously as a scene played to mind.

“But once he puts her back together, she’ll be beautiful again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to take a break from writing this for a little bit. I might be updating this other [ one ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6388909/chapters/14628901) which is another AU about time travel and Hannibal meeting Will out of order. If I disappear completely, you're free to send me messages here: [ tumblr](http://the-teacupshatters.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you for reading! :D


	8. Chapter 8

Hannibal Lecter sat opposite Bedelia Du Maurier. He had wanted to go to the deer farm with the FBI, but Jack Crawford cut him off, telling him that this was strictly their business and not Hannibal’s. He reeled in his distaste of such response, but at the same time, he admired Jack for his bluntness. He soon left after saying a small goodbye to Will. The empath did not reply in the same manner as he did before, but there was a certain reluctance in Will’s posture that made Hannibal want to stay. It was fine, whatever that was going to transpire was within Will's capabilities. Hannibal was certain of it. 

Instead of relying on his wants, he drove to Bedelia’s home. It was best that he did not miss his appointment with Bedelia. That would have been uncharacteristic of him to miss an appointment without telling her.

“You are closing up, Hannibal,” she said. “What I have seen through the stitching of the person suit that you wear is… dangerous. Are you sure you wish to approach the situation like this?”

Hannibal’s head twitched slightly. “Do you think I am dangerous?”

“I think that we all have a capacity for danger,” she replied – though quietly. She was gauging Hannibal’s responses as she sat elegantly and stiff. “And an inherent desire for self -preservation.”

Hannibal watched her behind his mask, his mouth perfectly aligned as his eyes flickered back and forth, wondering what it was like to talk to a fellow psychiatrist in their manner. He valued their conversations as they often gave him insight into aspects he overlooked, but at the same time, he disliked them thoroughly. They were comrades in a sense that they understood each other in ways that no one else could. Solitary birds engaged in a secret dance where each held and treasured aspects of the other’s life they no longer wanted to share. Hannibal knew that he had Bedelia in his hands, a noose tied tightly around her neck.

“You think that Will Graham can protect you,” she continued. “And you think that if anything goes wrong, Will Graham will be on your side.”

Hannibal lowered his gaze a little. It was always interesting to see how another person saw him. He was waiting for the day someone would understand him in a way that he never understood himself. He was waiting for the day that someone would see through his perfectly shaped mask that he had spent years perfecting. It was this anticipation that kept him going, kept him playing his games.

“You speak to Will Graham as if he is your toy to play with,” Bedelia stated. She circled a wine glass in her hand which brought him to focus on the bags beneath her eyes. She stood up again as she delicately circled the table to pour herself another drink. She would have asked Hannibal, but the two of them knew that he would not be satisfied with the vintage that she chose. “People are not toys, Hannibal. People are complicated pieces of clockwork, and if you think that you can play God, then you are wrong.”

“Play God?” Hannibal questioned. He turned to face the woman by the window. “That is simply the opposite of what I am trying to do.”

Bedelia swivelled her head around and took another sip of wine. She breathed in heavily and waited for Hannibal’s response. At times like this, it was difficult to completely understand what she was thinking. It had been easy to manipulate her and it will be the same in the future. Everyone was a puzzle waiting to be cracked and his current task was _Will_.

“I see Will Graham as someone who is similar to me,” Hannibal replied. The man’s empathy disorder was something that he had only read about, only heard about. It was different to see something up close. “I have been watching him for a very long time.”

“To say that you have been watching him for a very long time is an understatement. You have spoken to me about him since you caught him in one of Freddie Lounds’ article about the state of Will Graham. Before he was removed from service after his disability.”

Bedelia was right but Hannibal refused to admit it aloud. It almost seemed childish— his ever growing obsession with Will Graham. There were so many aspects of the man he did not completely understand and he was waiting for the man to emerge from the chrysalis, reborn.

“That article did highlight many aspects that I had not considered or even seen before. I see this as an opportunity for friendship. One that I have not had for a very long time,” Hannibal said. He was wondering how Bedelia was going to analyse him, what questions she was going to say. Everything that came from her mouth was as perfectly articulated as what he said, phrased eloquently.

Her mouth adjusted slightly as she tried to reign back another sentence. It was what he liked most about her, how much she could say in a simple expression. For the time being, Will was closed to him. Closed in a way that he was unable to break.

“You want to rebuild him, don’t you?” Bedelia asked. “You want him to know you, you want him to perfectly _see_ you.”

“That is a bit ironic,” Hannibal said. “But what if I am trying to?”

“You’ll die the day the blind man sees you,” Bedelia whispered. Her voice was low, in the way that she was sharing a secret. “That is the day you will lose your lofty position as a _God_.”

Instead of replying, Hannibal’s eyes twinkled. He was waiting for the day to be seen.  

*  * *

The deer farm was loud. It had been far too long since Will had conducted interviews, especially of these sorts. He had wanted Hannibal to come, wanted Hannibal to be his guide here. It was easier if he was there. It was so much easier to concentrate in Hannibal’s presence because the man helped him take out a lot of the details and only focus on the more important things. Jack had dismissed Hannibal almost immediately, saying that he was not an official officer and that it would not be wise for the FBI to use such man in their interviews.

There were so many smells, so many familiar and unfamiliar scents. It was a mixture of concrete, a mixture of chestnuts and pine needles. Everything blended into one, like a menagerie of confusion rustling his mind and creating unease.

But one thing that stood out was the overwhelming scent of blood. It was similar to the one he smelt in his bathroom, metallic with the hint of grass and dew. If he could simply draw the evidence from this conclusion, then everything would be solved so much faster than it did. He made jumps that no one else saw and he hated the fact that everyone saw it as his own gimmick. Everything was there, _everything_. People were never astute enough to decipher it.

 Jack conducted the interview, asking the man more unnecessary questions. Will listened closely, discerning the man’s confusion through his wavy tone.

Every modulation, every slight pitch change, Will heard it all.

“My wife passed away recently,” the man had said. “She was a beautiful woman. I miss her every day.”

“Is this a picture of her?” Jack asked. The man did not say anything and Will assumed that he nodded. “She was a beautiful woman. I am sorry for your loss.”

“It was sudden. I have no idea how it happened but one moment she was there and the next, she wasn’t,” he said, her bottom lip trembling.

Will stood there in silence, not bothering to say any words of consolation. “How are the deer?”

“Sorry?”

“The deer. I don’t hear that many,” Will replied. “They should be just through the door.”

“I had to sell a lot of them and use them to pay for the funeral.”

“And do you use any other aspects of the deer?”

“I do, but,” the man’s voice hitched again and Will wanted to sigh in exasperation.

“Did you have anything to do with the murder of Alana Crane?” it was direct, but Will was listening for any cues. There was a change in his heart rate and the smell of sweat reached his nostrils.

“The girl I read in the paper? Tragic isn’t it?” he said.

“She looked quite similar to your wife, didn’t she?” Will probed again. A quick exhalation and another spike in the man’s heart rate. He rubbed his hands together and Will knew that this was the suspect they were looking for.

“Will,” Jack said, his voice low. “I’m sorry for intruding. You are clearly a man who is grieving. Please excuse us.”

Jack grabbed his arm tightly and led him out of the compound. When they were a safe distance away from the cabin, he stopped. He sucked in a deep breath and his loud, commandeering voice was present.

“What the hell was that?” he exclaimed. “I did not ask you to accuse the man of murder. We were conducting an interview.”

“I wanted to see his reaction,” Will replied, holding his head up defiantly.

“Not like that. We don’t do it like that, in case you forgot!” Jack’s voice was getting louder. He turned around and began pacing. “Now he _knows_ that we’re onto him. Do you think that is good for us?”

“His heart rate increased, he was sweating. Did you notice that?”

“No,” Jack said slowly. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that he’s going to panic. He’s going to kill another girl. All the women he’s killed are within at least a thirty sixty kilometre radius around here. We need to find all the women who match up to his wife’s profile and protect them.”

“Are you sure about this?” Jack was unsure whether or not to trust Will’s intuition, but the last time he had refused to acknowledge it, he had damaged his best hound.

“I’m certain. Please,” Will whispered. “Trust me. Let me be there.”

“No, _no_ , it’s too dangerous, Will,” Jack said, his clothes rustling. “Will, I’m sorry. I can’t let you be out on the field, not like this. You can help us investigate murders, but your predictions… I can’t let you be there.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to put you in places where you can get hurt,” Jack sighed. “Please, this is for your own good, Will.”

Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Will you please drive me to Doctor Lecter’s office?”

“Do you have a meeting today?” This drew out a sound of surprise from Jack.

Will nodded. He had a sinking feeling that the murder was going to happen tonight and the only person who was going to believe him was Doctor Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally deleted What it Takes to Fly so you can have this update...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry how long it's taken me to update this!

There was a skittering sound beside him. The hum of electricity still haunted the house. Ever since the murder, no one had bothered to disconnect the power supply and among the peaceful landscape, it was particularly easy to detect the slight changes in the air. Strangely enough, he had narrowed down that the recent murders was going to take place around here and the easiest way to kill the woman was to lead her to this hut right here. That was what Will had deduced from the evidence but at the same time, unease settled in his bones. He had no idea if he was right or not. He wanted to be right, he wanted to  _prove_ to Jack that his hound was still useful, that his hound could still point at the right direction. But at the same time, he wanted to be wrong because of his history with this place. 

Will’s hand splayed out against the window as the vibration thrummed in his fingers. The coldness of the window bit at his fingertips, desperation catching at him and tugging at his heart. One side of him wanted to run, to get away from here, but the other side of him knew that this was the only way to capture the murderer they wanted.

“Thank you for coming with me, Doctor Lecter,” Will whispered. Trepidation hung heavy around them as he wondered what he was going to discover here. In particular, he wished for it to be the truth. In between the messy cases and blood, Will was meant to _be_ the purveyor of truth. Yet, for himself, he was unable to find his own truth, find the person behind his blindness. It was most likely out of an act of fear that prevented him from moving but now, standing here, he _knew_ he was going to get answers.

A strange scent hung in the air as Will followed it, the heel of his foot acting as a distance checker, clacking as it reverberated off the edge of the room. He dropped his cane to the ground as he lowered his centre of gravity, closer towards the floor. The carpet was scratchy against his fingertips. He sniffed the ground, getting a hint of patchouli and other woody scents. He drummed his fingers against the wood, tugging at the strings of memory as he tried to figure out where he had smelt that before.

“Are you sure it’s going to happen here, Will?” Hannibal’s voice was near him at the same time as it was far away from him. An almost ethereal presence.

Will spun around, his vision flicking back from the darkness and into something bright. He shielded his eyes with the back of his hand, wincing at the sudden pain that rose against his face. He began scurrying back, glaring at the body in front of him. With his muscled arms, he furiously tried pushing the man back, away from him.

Scratches cut through his skin, enough to draw blood and enough to sting. Fear clung to him as his heart hammered in his chest and his throat constricted. He punched at the body in front of him, thrashing until he was certain that the creature could move no longer. The adrenaline that ran through his body muffled the sounds around him and he could no longer hear. The only heightened senses around him was his sight and the ever present smell of blood.

Why was there so much blood everywhere?

The antlers from the man in front of him receded as he took his time lifting his gaze, instead fading into the strange image Will had of Hannibal Lecter.

“Will!” Hannibal called. “ _Will_ , you’re here with me. Tell me where you are.”

Will raised his hands to touch Hannibal’s face, cupping the man’s hands in between his own. His fingers shook as he searched for something that he knew was there but he was unsure where. Once the sticky liquid of blood settled on the tips of his fingers, his breath hitched in his throat, realising their proximity.

Will sunk to the ground, causing Hannibal to slip and fall on top of him. The body was warm, the scent was strangely familiar as if he had experienced it once more.

“My name is Will Graham, I'm at -- ” Will panted. He rolled out of the way and managed to say something that echoed his confusion in an apologetic manner. “Sorry, I’m so sorry about that.”

He tried to get to his feet, grabbing his cane and mumbling more apologies as he plunged his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief. He shuffled over towards Hannibal and leaned on his knees as his fingers moved up towards Hannibal’s face, guessing where it was near him.

There were strange bumps as Will slowly felt it, slowly memorised the curves. Hannibal was completely still in front of him and his breathing had slowed significantly. The man made a small hum in response as if he was satisfied by the outcome of the events. He jerked away once Will touched the bottom of his lips.

“It’s fine, simply a scratch,” Hannibal said. The wooden floorboards creaked as he tried to stand up but Will placed a strong hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, keeping him on the ground. He leaned close until he felt Hannibal’s hot breath against his skin. Scrunching up the handkerchief against the man’s lips, Will slowly wiped away the blood. He took his time, his other hand tracing the edge of the man’s jawline until his hand was firmly grasping his hand, filtering through the man’s hair.

Will’s voice was breathy, slightly relieved. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely healed now,” Hannibal said. Will swore he could hear a smile crack across his lips. “With fondest thanks to Doctor Graham.”

Will let out a staccato burst of laughter and got to his feet. “I lied, Doctor Lecter. If the killer is going to come here, then … he knows me or at least, we’ve met before. That night, the night I lost my sight… I was here. Investigating a murder.”

Will walked around the hut, remembering the body vividly. As the pendulum swung, he was sent spiralling backwards in time. Antlers grew from the ground and a woman was there, mounted on it. The blood had barely dried and his stomach rolled as he tried his best to slip into the mind of his killer.

The Chesapeake Ripper. The man’s identity was unknown to him even now. No matter how _hard_ he looked at the evidence, he found that he had to get to know the man before he was able to figure out who it was. It was the same man who had destroyed his career, the same man who destroyed all resemblance of normality Will Graham ever had.

“Why did you want to come here, then, Will?” Hannibal asked, his voice leaden with curiosity.

Will’s cane tapped against the ground. “Because I wanted to know how you reacted.”

At this, Will heard the smallest intake of breath, the slightest tense in Hannibal’s muscles and how his heartbeat quickened just a little. He sniffed at the air and took a couple of steps forward until he was eye-level with Hannibal. He shifted his gaze, hoping that he was looking directly into Hannibal’s eyes.

Bringing Hannibal’s hand close to his nose, he inhaled sharply again. “You smell like blood. All the time. You know it’s hard to wash the smell of blood off your hands, don’t you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Indeed,” he said. He was significantly tenser now and though his tone was nonchalant, there was the essence of panic. “Do you suspect me of something, Will?”

“I don’t know,” Will whispered.

The pendulum swung again.

His vision cleared. The wendigo stood in front of him and pushed him against the wall. At first, strong hands were around his neck but they moved up, fingers pressed against his eye sockets. Will’s legs thrashed as he tried to push away, tried to reign in his terror that was growing. The terror ate at him as he tried to push the creature off him and the pain was unbearable. He thought he was going to faint but his body didn’t give him such luxury.  

He slumped to the ground, his hands shaking as he tried moving them about his vision. He _knew_ they were there but his sight wasn’t registering it. Trembling, he tried again and _again_. He kept trying until Jack came. He remembered the man’s quick intake of breath and how he huddled Will out of the cabin, placing him in the ambulance as they tended to him.

“You did this to me,” Will roared as the realisation settled in. He had barely moved from his position. He balled his hands into a fist, his knuckles blanching as he moved his hands towards the man’s neck. “You _did_ this to me!”

“Will, _Will!”_ Hannibal exclaimed. The psychiatrist’s strong grip was around his wrists as he tried his best to calm his patient down. “This isn’t you.”

“Doctor Lecter,” Will hissed, slowly increasing the pressure.

“If you think that I am the Chesapeake Ripper and I was the one who did this,” Hannibal wheezed. The man’s hands were sliding down Will’s forearm, fruitlessly trying to push him away. Will had years of police training, Hannibal didn’t. “Then you shouldn’t kill me, because what does that make you?”

“A hero,” Will said between gritted teeth. “Why did you do this to me, Doctor Lecter? Why did you want to destroy my life? You took everything away from me.”

You never knew what you had until it was taken away against your will, he thought bitterly.

Hannibal’s breath hitched in his throat. Despite his protests, Will kept pushing and pushing. Pure anger consumed him like a fire. Hannibal’s grip around Will’s wrists loosened. It was at that moment Will realised what he was doing. He immediately released the pressure and fled, falling back against the chair. He leaned forward, hanging his head between his knees as his curls fell across his face. He pushed them back, wiping the sweat with the back of his hands. The scene played over and over again.

“I thought I was…” another voice entered the fray, causing Will to get to his feet in shock. “The Chesapeake Ripper.”

His hand was around his cane as he aimed it as threateningly as he could at the voice near him. It sounded familiar. How strangely and perfectly timed, Will wanted to say, but the words were thick on his lips as he listened out for more movement.

“Strange, to have your identity given to someone else.”

“Will! Get down!” Hannibal croaked. Will ducked. The wind above him changed and he rolled to the side, swiping his cane out as he hit the man in the stomach.

“Will Graham, how delectable,” the man said, saliva crackling across his mouth. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. Again.”

No. This was wrong. His entire scent was wrong. He could _not_ be the Chesapeake Ripper. Will scrambled to his feet and lunged, his fingers catching around the man’s shirt. His entire frame was far too large and his body mass a little too concentrated to _be_ the man who blinded him.

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Doctor Abel Gideon,” he said as Will’s fist connected to the man’s face.

Will shook his head. “You’re not… you’re not the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“I would know my own identity, Will Graham,” the man repeated. Will hit the man once more with another punch — with the intention of beating him raw and bloody — but before his fist connected, Hannibal’s hand was on his shoulder. Will slumped burying his face against Gideon’s clothes, inhaling. Knowing that everything about this declaration was false but he had no idea what was happening anymore.

Whatever game that was being played, he was stuck in a position of checkmate, with very few moves to make to sidle out.

It was meant to be the _other_ murderer, not the Chesapeake Ripper to have made an appearance. He furrowed his brows as confusion permeated from him. Was he simply _that_ out of touch with the minds of murderers that he had begun to mix them up? That he was beginning to lose sight of one as he tried to catch another?

“Call Jack,” Will whispered, fishing his phone out of his pocket and tossed it at Hannibal. He got to his feet and twisted Gideon so that his back faced him. Hoisting him to a standing position, he moved to push him so that he was on the chair, hoping that he had something that could tie him down. Soon discovering that he didn’t have such object, he sighed and pulled the gun from his belt, aiming it at the man carefully.

This all had been strangely crafted. The man had come in just in time, to prevent Doctor Lecter from dying, to prevent him from being accused of taking away Will’s sight. Will’s lips thinned into a pale line. Perhaps this was his sensory overload taking over him, consuming him and confusing him. Perhaps Doctor Lecter was actually the nicest man alive and shouldn’t have to deal with Will Graham’s accusations.

But too many puzzle pieces went undone just as Gideon slipped into the scene.

“Did you plan this?” Will asked.

“Plan what?” Hannibal said as he handed the phone back to Will. “Jack said he’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t quite think he is the Chesapeake Ripper, I know you’ve done something in here,” Will muttered as he raised a finger to his head. “And I will figure out what exactly you’ve done.”

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully. “I know you need to blame someone for your disability, Will. And you have him right in front of you.”

Will was unsure whether or not Hannibal was mentioning himself or Gideon. He liked to think he was mentioning himself.

“Let me help you through this moment,” Hannibal said as his steps neared Will. He closed the distance between them and placed his hand on Will’s face. They were close enough that Will felt his heart flutter in his chest. “Let me help you find clarity.”

“And once I find clarity and discover the truth, what then?” Will ventured.

“We’ll consider what will happen when the time comes,” Hannibal said and he stepped away. For a second, Will wanted to follow him, wanted to feel the man’s touch once more. But hatred boiled back inside of him as he realised the possibility of what that meant. “But as for Doctor Gideon. Strange, isn’t it? To be here at this moment in time. Arrested for a crime he committed months before.”

The sentence hung heavy in the air as if there was meant to be more. Will refused to press further and angled the gun properly at Gideon’s head, narrowed his eyes, hoping the expression he pulled was threatening enough to _both_ Gideon and Hannibal. “Make one move and I’ll shoot.”  


End file.
